


Shift

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clues, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Angst, POV John Watson, happy ending guaranteed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each person sees the world their own particular way but sometimes all it takes is changing a single tiny detail to make it all different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shift

**Author's Note:**

> So this meme went around and everyone went ooooooh and I say yeah maybe and then I thought about it and said, why the hell not, it's not like I'm finishing anything else right now so here you go. I have no idea if this is good or not.

 

....and this is what I did.....

 

* * *

“Sherlock why is there an eyeball in the ice-cube tr…you know, never mind. Are the other cubes just regular water?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded distracted, engrossed in whatever it was he was examining with his microscope.

“Good enough.” John needed a drink. It had been a long rough week of too many ill doctors laid low thanks to a flu bug that had gone round, thankfully missing John but leaving the doctor working as many shifts at the clinic as he could manage. He cracked out a cube as far from the suspended eyeball as he could manage and put the tray back without comment.

The next day there was another eyeball but in a different location. John knew it was different because this one was blue and the one yesterday had definitely been brown. A day later it was a green eye, and the day after John stopped checking.

The week after John’s work schedule eased up but he wasn’t feeling well, finally being not exactly flu-ish but definitely worn down and used up. When he stumbled into the flat barely able to stand Sherlock was holding a handful of gloves, obviously in the middle of something and he tossed them on the table. John’s tired eyes fixed on them, there seemed to be only one of each type. The detective had inspected John sharply from head to toe and told John to go recuperate, “You’re no use to me. Sleep. Now.”

John was too tired to even argue that he needed a shower and food. He just turned on his heel and took himself back to bed to sleep for fourteen hours straight. When he woke there was a large assortment of fruits, vegetables and other edibles in the refrigerator with a note taped to the front of the crisper. _Eat what you like tonight. I’m experimenting on the rest later. SH_

“Well thanks for the notification,” John wasn’t really unhappy, at least Sherlock told him before he rendered all the foodstuffs inedible so John made himself a hearty meal by randomly selecting things and creating a massive cold-plate of cut vegetables and cheeses, bits of cold roast Mrs. Hudson had brought up, and when he dug around under the pile of gloves that were apparently chilling in a different crisper John located the bag of grapes he’d spotted. Once a hot cup of tea was added John ate his meal with a great deal of enjoyment.

John was so glad to be living back at Baker Street. His life finally felt normal again. He’d been almost clinically depressed for ages now but he felt centred once more, his world entwined with his best friend, and things were easy for once. His self-esteem had taken a huge blow when …he couldn’t think of it. It would ruin his lovely day. With a small contented smile John pulled out a book and lazed the day away, eating right out of the fridge from time to time whenever he felt peckish, and for a couple of luxurious hours he stretched out on the sofa, cuddling the Union Jack pillow under his cheek as he revelled in being blissfully alone for a while. He didn’t even wonder about the string that had been attached to the wall to hang several other lone gloves or the little rows of gloves that lined the mantle and coffee-table. Living with Sherlock for so long had rendered John almost incapable of being surprised at what Sherlock experimented with and these days the doctor seldom even bothered to ask why. Sherlock always had a reason so John simply relished the rare quiet time, soaking in the comfortable silence as he waited for his flatmate to come back.

Sharing a space with Sherlock was so peaceful, John had no idea how wound up he’d been for so long until all the stress was gone. The scents and sounds of 221 B had crept into John’s soul and undone all the knots that had accumulated. Their lives went slow and fast in a crazy rhythm that they navigated together. Sherlock was alive, all their major problems seemed to be solved, neither of them had any extra holes in them currently and life was pretty grand. There was the tiny matter of being almost painfully in love with Sherlock but John was long used to hiding _that_ fact from absolutely everyone and didn’t give it another thought. It was just one of those things.

The next week was a strange one. Sherlock seemed to almost vibrate with barely contained energy as he threw himself into his research. He got like this occasionally and like always John simply stood back and let the storm of Sherlock’s mind rage as hard as it would, making Sherlock have food or something to drink on regular occasions but otherwise simply letting his best friend do what he did and booked himself for several shifts at the hospital while Sherlock was occupied. John had come back from work several nights to find little piles of twigs set in careful solo arrangements all over the flat, “What’s all this?”

“Yew.” said Sherlock who was bent over a sample, delicately scraping a bit of bark from a slender branch with a scalpel. He seemed much focused on what he was doing and John decided he wasn’t getting more of an explanation than that.

“Well I’m ordering in and then that research show you like is on.” John meant _Storage Wars_ but Sherlock wouldn’t admit to enjoying such a pedestrian entertainment, instead claiming that he only observed it to gain further insight on what the average human found valuable enough to put away. Personally John thought Sherlock enjoyed the way the bidders argued and manoeuvred one another but whatever, for a whole hour they would sit side by side while Sherlock shouted at the TV and checked actual prices online. It was like a regular date, even if John was the only one who knew they were on one. He cleared off the coffee table, spread the lap blanket neatly across the back of the sofa instead of leaving it crushed between the cushions, and generally made their shared space as comfortable as possible. He tried not to be obvious but he made sure that the floor lamps were providing the light instead of the rather unforgiving overhead, the additional light from the telly making the room comfortably illuminated.

When their meal arrived John went down to collect it at the door and when he came back he was surprised to see that Sherlock had stirred himself enough to not only leave his experiment but to pour two glasses of wine and bring them to the front room. John sat on the sofa and they enjoyed their meal side by side. John was so happy. This was what he liked, these quiet evenings in. He loved the chase of course, and the adrenaline rush that working a case always brought but _these_ moments, these in between times when it was just the two of them full and happy together, this is what John lived for.

When the show neared its finish Sherlock sat back with a satisfied sigh and said, “I’m nearly done this series of experiments.”

John perked up. If Sherlock was mentioning his experiments that meant there was something John was supposed to have noticed already and hadn’t. Smiling a bit inside John quickly reviewed what he recollected of the last while, “Find what you needed?”

Sherlock looked at John thoughtfully, “Not exactly. Perhaps after the current experiment concludes I might have the answer. I will have to wait for results.”

 _No extra clues given_. Well, John wasn’t a million-mile-an-hour thinker like Sherlock but he could get there in a reasonable amount of time, “Well I’m off then.” he had an early shift in the morning so no matter how he would have preferred to stay up late to try and tease some information out of his best friend, duty called.

“Goodnight John, I’ll try not to make too much noise.” Sherlock got up and wandered back to the kitchen.

“Thanks.” John took himself to the shower first, always preferring to sleep clean and fresh, especially when he lived with a man who had no problem dragging John out of bed to dash around London no matter what other obligations John had so being prepared in advance was just prudent. While he scrubbed down he thought about Sherlock’s experiments. There had been a bit of hiatus when he’d done none at all so that would mean the eyeballs were the beginning of the series. John pondered. _Was it about sight? The colour spectrum? Relative eyeball sizes? All of the eyeballs had been frozen so John could see the colour of them, was that relevant?_ Shower accomplished he dried off and risked a dash back to his room wearing only a towel, his clothes bundled under his arm.

Deciding he couldn’t figure it out just yet John dressed in his pyjamas and thought about Sherlock’s next experiment, the gloves. Some had been chilled, some had been hung up, it seemed like there was just one of each but he hadn’t actually checked for himself. _Maybe the pairs were separated for a reason? Was it the fabric? The stitching? The intended use for each style of glove?_ John was sliding himself into bed now and reached over to shut off his bedside light.

He wasn’t getting anywhere with the glove experiment so he set that aside too. The last thing Sherlock had worked on was the twigs and branches. Actually some of those arrangements had been quite lovely and John was thinking about keeping a couple of them to decorate their bookshelves, they were rather fetching in their own wild way. What was that again, _yew_? John didn’t know trees or shrubs. He could identify some flowers and hedges and the like but Sherlock was a walking botanical encyclopaedia. John recognized the name but could bring to mind no other information about it.

He was feeling drowsy already, his well-trained internal soldier always ready to bunk down whenever the opportunity presented itself. He closed his eyes and began to drift. _Eyeballs. Gloves. Twigs._ What did it mean? John’s mind began to wander. _Eyes. Glove. Twigs._ Something wasn’t quite right with that list but John was almost asleep now.

_Eye_

_Glove_

_Yew_

John sat straight up in bed. Eye glove yew. _I love you_. His heart was pounding in his chest like he’d run a hundred miles, John struggled to breathe and cautioned himself. What if that was just a hopeful assumption, surely that’s not what the experimental series actually meant? It had to be a coincidence.

Suddenly John remembered the Holmesian thoughts on coincidence. _The universe is rarely so lazy_. Could…could this be Sherlock’s way of expressing himself? Would he do that? John’s eyes stared downward toward the kitchen where Sherlock was currently working again on another yew experiment. _Yew_.

_Eye glove yew._

He couldn’t stop thinking the words. They were branded behind his eyes now, even shutting them wasn’t helping. John forced himself to lay back, forced his heart to slow, forced his lungs to draw air and to exhale again, forced himself to calm.

_Eye glove yew._

It seemed so obvious now. Three little words and John was completely undone. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He wanted to go downstairs and just ask but no…what if he was wrong, horribly wrong? This surely just…it was…John squeezed his eyes shut and dared to hope. What if it was true? What if Sherlock was telling him at long last that John’s secret feelings were reciprocated, that all the love and passion that John had firmly set aside might actually be welcome?

John relaxed again, his mind caught up in fantasies of being with Sherlock the way he’d envisioned for so long, his dreams taking his fantasies and weaving them into a glorious story that kept a smile on the doctor’s face all through the long hours of the night. When John woke early the next morning the smile remained and his mind was made up. He got himself dressed for work, went to the kitchen for a fast breakfast and some tea before he looked around.

Sherlock had cleaned up the kitchen table but the little wooden arrangements were still singly distributed all over the flat. John went around and set them beside each other in pairs. Quickly checking that he’d missed none John squared his shoulders, turned on his heel and left the flat to go to work. If he’d interpreted the evidence correctly he’d given Sherlock the answer he’d been seeking. If not, then he was partially finished cleaning up after Sherlock and that wasn’t bad either. John was in a state of almost zen-like calm. He was Schrödinger’s doctor. John was and John was not openly in love with Sherlock and he would need to wait until he got home tonight to find out which. That was fine. It was all fine.

Somehow the day went by and John’s deep pool of calm remained with him all throughout. He soothed aches and pains, gave good news and bad, made recommendations, put in stitches, and wrote prescriptions, all with focus and attention. He felt good, really good, like everything in the world was as it should be and if he’d ever tried any John would have said it was like being on drugs. He was surrounded by tranquillity.

John took the Tube and then walked the last small bit back to Baker Street. It was overcast and cool but for John it seemed the finest day ever. He didn’t feel nervous, he didn’t feel anxious, he still felt good so blissfully he floated inside and shut the door.

Reality didn’t come crashing in until he’d put his foot on the first step. What if he’d made a horrendous error? He wasn’t a genius. Why in the world would Sherlock tell someone like _John_ he loved him and even if he _had_ John was assuming rather a lot if he thought Sherlock should mean _romantic_ love! What if Sherlock had just been expressing his friendship to John? They _did_ love each other, everyone knew it, they just weren’t in _love_ _love_. John wanted to be in _love_ _love_ but what if Sherlock wasn’t in _love love_ with John? What if Sherlock just loved John and that was it? Now he’d made a fool of himself by re-arranging all the yew piles and now what? He couldn’t run away, Sherlock had extra-sensory perception and would have heard him come home.

In fact, “John, bring up the mail.” shouted Sherlock from upstairs. John looked over his shoulder. There was a stack of mail on the table near the door. He walked over and sorted through it. Bills mostly, all of them had both John and Sherlock’s names on them; they paid out of their joint work account. John was at the door before he realized he’d walked up all seventeen steps without thinking a thought about his current predicament. He was filled with uncertainty yet again but it was too late. He was home.

John pushed the door open and was greeted with the delectable odour of dinner, “You cooked?” He could see Sherlock moving in the kitchen but his back was to John.

“Obviously John, I told you I was experimenting with foodstuffs a while ago.” _Oh._ Sherlock was experimenting with _cooking_. John’s heart fell a little. For a short while he’d thought…well…it didn’t matter. Clearly he’d been wrong. Glancing around John saw that all the yew had disappeared and his heart fell further. He’d been very wrong. Swallowing hard he removed his coat and shoes, pushed his feet into his slippers and took himself to the loo to regain his composure.

He used the facilities and when he was washing his hands John took a hard look at his body and didn’t like what he saw. All the buoyancy from his day evaporated as reality finally crashed in. He was getting old; he looked at least a decade older than Sherlock who seemed to be permanently in his early thirties. John had wrinkles and grey hair and his eyes were boring as was absolutely everything about him. Steeling himself John lifted his shirt and stifled a groan of dismay. _His war abs!_ Was it _so_ long ago that he’d had iron hard and almost rippling muscles on his torso? Where had they gone? It was all jiggly podge covered with an ever thinner appearing scattering of grey and blond hair. Horrible! He dropped his shirt and viciously tucked it back in, ignoring the fact that he had a bit of a flabby spill over his belt. Jogging would resume tomorrow!

“John hurry up! Things are getting cold and other things are getting warm!” Sherlock’s less than dulcet tones jerked John back to reality and with a last sigh of regret over the ravages of time he quit the loo and went to the kitchen for dinner. Sherlock was setting down a steaming plate that bore a wonderfully delicious looking slice of roast. It also contained several small and almost aggressively fancy looking sides alongside the potatoes and for a minute John was completely surprised, “Sit John, I need your opinion on everything.”

Without further ado John lifted his fork and knife and began to eat. After the first bite John was pretty sure he’d embarrassed himself by the loudness of his moan of appreciation as well as how far back his eyes rolled. He’d never tasted anything like it! The meat was a cut of lamb rolled with some sort of magical filling, so tender it was nearly falling to pieces and the sauce! It was piquant, sweet, zesty, rich, smooth, lingering, and so delicious John found his mouth was watering in anticipation of the next mouthful. Sherlock watched him intently and seemed to be making notes in a small book. “French.” he stated when John was half done, “My mother’s side of the family.” Information delivered Sherlock went back to his note-taking, seemingly lost as John devoured the rest of his meal.

Sherlock had made dessert. John was in raptures. It was some kind of sticky sweet apple confection that Sherlock also indulged in. John was too filled with amazing food to protest that the detective had gone straight to dessert without eating a meal first so he said nothing when Sherlock gave both of them a second helping. “That was the most incredible meal I’ve ever had. I’m going to have to make a regular appearance at the gym after tonight.” said John staring down at his now well-rounded tummy, “I think I just gained ten pounds. That was so good Sherlock, thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t give you a chance to ask me any questions.”

“Unnecessary John, I gathered the data I was seeking. I am satisfied with the results thus far.” Sherlock eyed John, “Unless there is a health risk I am not aware of I must ask why you feel it’s necessary to begin an exercise regime? We have a very active life for the most part.”

John looked at Sherlock who was all lean wiry muscle and bones, “Well, unlike _you_ I’m not staying young forever. If I’m not careful now I’m going to be twice the man I am now in only a very small amount of time. I’m not sure I’d care for that.”

Sherlock got a peculiar look on his face when John defended his decision to exercise more, “I don’t understand. The normal progression of years dictates a certain softening of the body. It is natural, why would you wish to fight it?” He actually sounded confused.

“Well, to stay fit I suppose. I don’t want to be out of shape.” This statement only deepened the confusion in Sherlock’s eyes and it was clear he didn’t care for the sensation.

“You _are_ a shape. You are John shaped.” John looked at Sherlock who was very serious, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“You don’t really get to decide though but thanks Sherlock. That actually makes me feel a bit better.” John wasn’t going to get into an argument with Sherlock right after eating possibly the best meal of his entire existence. “I’ll wash up since you did all the cooking.”

“It will go faster if we both do it.” said Sherlock reasonably and simply began gathering up all the plates and soiled cutlery. John felt nervous standing so close to Sherlock after last night’s misunderstanding and the energy drained out of him, “I’ll dry.”

“Ta.” Drying meant putting the dishes away and neither of them needed to mention that Sherlock could get the things that needed to go back onto the top shelf easier than John who needed a never-referred-to step-stool that was folded away at the end of the counter. He filled sink with hot soapy water and set to, methodically working his way from glassware until he eventually got to the many pots and pans that Sherlock had needed to create his masterpiece. It was a lot to do but privately John felt it was worth every minute of time. His stomach was still very happy even if his fingers were pruney now.

John was also soothed by the familiar scent of Sherlock. He’d always liked the odd way Sherlock smelled, like expensive cologne and formaldehyde. Maybe it was because the first time he’d laid eyes on Sherlock they’d been in a morgue, it had made a devastating impression on John and he wasn’t sure he’d ever gotten over being swept away by the sheer force of Sherlock’s overwhelming personality. He never felt crowded by Sherlock even though the man was so much taller than he was. In fact Sherlock made an incredible human shield, not for injuries, that was John’s job, but for annoyances. Sherlock’s lifetime of shouldering past absolutely everything had evolved into John being pulled around London safely enshrouded in a tide-pool of calm as he paced right behind his best friend un-jostled.

When they were done and John had finished cleaning the sink up and Sherlock was hanging up the very damp tea-towel to dry the detective turned to look down at John and said seriously, “We need to talk.”

John’s heart dropped right down to the floor. _He knew it_. He’d misinterpreted _everything_ and now Sherlock was going to…well…probably verbally eviscerate him. With an almost inaudible sigh John nodded and grimly preceded Sherlock into the front room. Resolutely he sat himself in his chair, and struggled for a moment deciding whether or not to cross his legs and settled for keeping his feet firmly planted on the floor. He was going to take this like a man.

Sherlock sat on his chair and to John’s dismay he tented his fingers. This wasn’t a good sign. Sherlock looked sharply across the length of the coffee table and sat up. “When we first met there was only an 11.5 % chance that you would find me acceptable but you moved in nearly immediately. There was a further 82% chance that you would find me not only difficult to live with but impossible to tolerate yet despite that you _continued_ to live with me. There have been 642 separate instances where I have embarrassed you in public, 317 instances where I’ve made you visibly uncomfortable, and no less than 86 cases where you were required to interfere with me medically because someone had either poisoned me or put a hole in me with something. Despite that you did not leave and given the fact that you have returned to Baker Street after every single major down-point in your current life it leads me to believe that what I must inform you of next is necessary.”

John had no idea how to verify any of those facts or what they might mean but clearly they were important or Sherlock would never have mentioned them. He shifted uncomfortably and swallowed hard. His heart was in his throat despite his efforts and his voice was thick with barely supressed anxiety as he waited for Sherlock to end their friendship forever. “I’m listening.”

Sherlock’s gaze intensified. “I am not an easy man; you know only too well how difficult I can be. I am not given to intimacy or tender feelings, nor do I require the constant social contact most people crave. I prefer to dedicate my energies to the acquisition and use of knowledge.” John nodded his head, mystified. These were all very blatant parts of Sherlock, what was his point? “I am very accustomed to being alone. I do not fit with people. My mind is too great, my interests too varied and in the eyes of some my researches are not only distasteful but highly questionable.”

Well John couldn’t say he particularly loved human bits being stored in the fridge but Sherlock had teased so much information out of such samples over the years that John couldn’t even bring to mind how many cases he’d solved due to his kitchen laboratory, “I am the worst sort of person. I am painfully practical and logical about my decisions and you of all people once again know exactly how cruel I can be if it’s required.” _Yes_. Pretending to be dead for years and then simply waltzing back into John’s life like he hadn’t grieved for Sherlock the entire time. That had been a bitter pill and the death knell to his relationship with Mary.

“I have driven away everyone of consequence to you, exposed all their faults and foibles until you have been left utterly alone, empty-handed, and homeless.” Mary had emptied his bank account before she burned their house to the ground in a vengeful fit. John had already moved out but that was beside the point. “I took your child from you and exposed you as a cuckold.” Pain lanced through John’s heart. _The baby_. Mary had been almost ready to deliver when Sherlock figured it out and John would not lie, it had nearly broken him to hear the truth. David was the baby’s real father and he’d originally been married to Mary back when she’d had a legal name. They’d remained lovers throughout and John had been nearly ill with worry before his blood screens came back clean. David and Mary worked as assassins and John was just a contract she had fulfilled. John still felt sick about that but how was that Sherlock’s fault? “Despite what I did to you, you moved back here the very same day.” Good thing too or all of his possessions would have been ash and besides that, where else was he supposed to go? All of a sudden John felt uneasy. Sherlock hadn’t _actually_ asked him back last time. John had just shown up and Sherlock hadn’t said anything. The sick feeling inside grew worse.

Sherlock sat back and he looked very grim indeed. There was an uncomfortable silence for a long minute before the consulting detective leaned forward again. “John Watson, I have spelled out the worst wrongs I have done you as clearly as I can. There is much to add to that list but these in my mind bore mentioning first. You now live here unencumbered by all that troubled you in your past and I must now ask you about your intentions.”

 _What?_ John’s brain stuttered to a halt, “Intentions? I don’t…”

“ _Understand_ , yes. How did I know that would be the first thing you said?” Sherlock’s jaw worked as he clearly struggled not to become snappish. “My question is this John, _with regard to your life what are your intentions_? Do you plan to resume dating and pursue other relationships?”

Sherlock was asking John if he was going to start dating again and John shrank back in horror. Put himself out there? Try to _meet_ people? Chatting and getting to know each other and painfully slowly moving toward the bedroom for a possible night of bliss or more likely an hour or two of awkward pleasure followed by near immediate absence? “I…I…I would rather not date.”

Sherlock seemed to visibly deflate. His eyes fell to his hands and slowly Sherlock laced his fingers together. His voice had lost the surety it had contained just a moment before and sounded hollow now, “I thought as much. Very well John. Thank you for your time. I have….”

John shook his head, “What? That’s it? _That_ was the big talk, if I was going to date again?” He’d missed something. He knew he had. He just didn’t know what. Sherlock was shutting down. John could see his eyes closing off, his face hardening. In a moment Sherlock would be locked in his mind-palace and unresponsive, “I don’t want to date some _stranger_ Sherlock. Look what happened last time.” John felt miserable. “I’m not like you, I can’t just look at someone and know if they’re lying or not, or who they really are. I _can’t_ so I’m not. I’m stopping. I’ve tried and tried and tried and I think I’ve failed for the last time.” John was very upset now. He stood up and his chest felt tight. “I’ve _failed_ at absolutely everything. I can’t…I don’t want…” His entire world was crashing down around him. He’d had such hopes! John exhaled sharply through his nose and held himself ramrod straight, his distress causing him to fall back on old habits, “Anything I might have to offer is something no one wants, _clearly_. I have no reason to date. I’ve already thought I was a husband and soon to be a father but I am neither. I’m a fool…a… a _joke_ , so no Sherlock. I don’t plan to date. I….this…is very difficu…I…” John’s heart was thumping painfully and his breath was coming faster. “Excuse me.”

Stiffly John turned on his heel and left a very surprised looking Sherlock sitting alone in his chair as John limped out the door and down the stairs. His hip was killing him. Grabbing his jacket from the foyer on the way out John nearly fell to his knees when he missed the first step on the stoop. Cursing softly he collected himself, shrugged himself into his coat and took himself away. Wishing he’d also grabbed his cane John made his way down the street with as much speed as he could manage, all the months of repressed humiliation rising up and threatening to overwhelm him.

His wife, _the woman he loved_. How she’s lied. His best friend, _not dead_ , he lied too and even though John knew why it still had shattered him when he’d learned how he’d been duped. Molly had lied. Mycroft had lied. All of them had lied because John was so fucking gullible he’d believe anything anyone told him and it smarted. How he’d trusted and for what? To end up alone? To be a failure forever?

He really _was_ a failure. John had not thought of himself in terms like those before but Sherlock spelling out their lives together showed him what a doormat he really was. It was so obvious! John saw that he seemed to _enjoy_ being used by people, that he gave everything of himself but almost never got anything back. Mary had taken him for a merry ride. All of John’s ex-girlfriends had extracted their pound of flesh too. Why even Sherl…no…Sherlock didn’t _use_ John. Well he did but it wasn’t _malicious_. In truth John rather enjoyed how his best friend relied on him. John was in the park now and his feet slowed down. Was Sherlock still his best friend? Was this the end of everything?

John’s hip twanged more painfully than ever and he almost didn’t make it to a bench in time. What if tonight had been a brush-off? A softening of the blow as Sherlock finally asked John to move along. John sucked in another sharp breath as realization filled him. _That’s what dinner had been! A goodbye._ Sherlock had deduced what John was trying to say with those stupid twig piles which had been _wrong wrong wrong_ and now John was homeless all over again. His stomach clenched. What was he supposed to do? Sherlock was wordlessly asking him to leave Baker Street where he wasn’t welcome to begin with. He had no home to go to because his fake wife had burned it down. He had no savings yet, he couldn’t even get a room for the night because Mary had ruined his credit rating and Mycroft was still sorting it out. John swallowed hard and pressed his lips into a tight line. His fingers were trembling so he clenched them into tight fists and tried not to let anxiety take control of him.

“John?” startled John whipped around. Sherlock was standing there and he looked worried, “John? What’s wrong?”

John laughed bitterly, “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong Sherlock except that I’m over forty, I’d be divorced except that my lying cheating wife used a fake name so I wasn’t really married anyway. I’ve been lied to by everyone around me. I’m childless, homeless, option-less, and completely unwanted by the entire fucking world. I wish I’d just used my Sig the way I planned to back when I first got home from Afghanistan.”

Sherlock went deathly white and John laughed bitterly again, “What, Mycroft didn’t tell you all about it? You didn’t read it in Ella’s files? I know you checked. You could hardly help yourself.” John turned away, “I planned on killing myself. I still have the bullet I wanted to use. Ella told me to go for a walk and think about it before I did anything rash; she was desperate so I listened. I went for a walk and I ran into Mike. He introduced me to you and I didn’t die that day. Maybe I should have though right? You would have been just fi…fi…fine.” John stared off into the park and watched all the happy families, “I’ve died already Sherlock, so many times. I just haven’t gotten around to being in my grave.”

“ _Stop_ ,” John looked up at Sherlock who was still pale; his lips turned down into the unhappiest most miserable expression John had ever seen on the man. Sherlock’s eyes were getting red too. What? “Don’t ever say that John. You won’t ever _do_ that John.”

John’s voice was almost gentle, “No one cares Sherlock, not really. You’ll move on and forget about me the first time something distracting comes up, fuck, you barely notice me now and I’m alive. Mrs. Hudson will cry at first for a minute and then make you a cup of tea. I have no family anywhere. I can’t re-enlist. I can’t keep a job at a clinic for more than half a year. I can’t live on my pension alone. I can’t walk. I can’t shoot. I can’t write. You hate my blog and I’m so fucking tired of being on the bottom of everything.” John looked off, “Don’t worry about it Sherlock. I’ll grab my things and get a space somewhere. You didn’t need to go through all this trouble to get me to leave. I’ll go.”

“I care.” said Sherlock softly but John said nothing. Sherlock stood there and John could feel his eyes on him, “John. I _care_. About _you_. I do not wish for you to leave Baker Street.”

John looked up at his best friend and gave Sherlock a soft smile and shook his head. “You’re accustomed to me. I’m useful to you. I need more than just being useful. I wanted my family _so much_ Sherlock…” John was furious when his eyes filled and he glared off in the other direction, “I was going to be a dad and a partner. I was going to leave a legacy behind and be _someone_ to someone. Instead I have fuck all and that’s what I deserve.”

John didn’t expect his wrist to be grabbed in a vice-like grip as Sherlock strode off toward their flat, almost dragging John behind him. Stumbling and cursing John tried to wrench his wrist free but Sherlock was scowling and ignoring his efforts, merely walking faster until John could barely stay upright and trotted angrily behind him. No one tried to stop them though they received a fair amount of amused looks.

Sherlock didn’t stop his furious pace until he’d hauled John all the way back to Baker Street, nearly throwing John onto the sofa to shout at him, almost roaring with rage, “You wanted to _kill_ yourself? You tell me you want to _die?_ I _threw myself off a fucking building to keep you alive!_ I gave you away to a woman I _hated_ to keep you happy! I let my entire world go up in flames to protect you and that means _nothing_ to you? I mean _nothing_ to you? I would _never_ ask you to leave Baker Street John! I have never once asked you to leave! Even when I died I made sure our home would always be there for you because it’s _ours_ … _this is_ our _home John_! Your room has _never_ changed; it will always wait for you. Don’t you dare tell me…”

Like all his muscles stopped working at once Sherlock dropped into his chair and covered his face with both of his hands and his shoulders shook. Sherlock flopped forward and curled up on himself, his shoulders and back now working in heaving tandem as the dreadful silence continued. John stared at Sherlock in absolute stunned shock for the words he had spoken and for the fact that Sherlock was crying right in front of him.  John had upset the normally unassailable Sherlock Holmes to such a degree that he was weeping! The sight of his great friend reduced to tears was something John could not bear and without hesitation John nearly flew off the sofa to stand in front of Sherlock. Uncertain for only an instant John tugged Sherlock’s long arms around his hips and let Sherlock cry into his jumper while he stroked his hands over Sherlock’s head and neck, “I’m sorry Sherlock. Please, I’m sorry.” he said, repeating his words over and over until the tears finally stopped and Sherlock was trembling with the effort of ceasing.

“John.” his voice was thick and haggard sounding, “John, I cannot bear even the _idea_ of you being truly gone. I would find you a hundred replacement wives if necessary, hope you fathered a child with every one of them, even if it meant never seeing you again because I care for you so much I’m willing to let you be happy any way you can. There’s nothing I would not do if it meant you smiled every day and that the pain you feel all the time would just stop, and if there was some way of just making it so you didn’t have to feel poorly about anything _I would_. You are _everything_ John, how do you not know that after all these years? I thought you understood.”

John felt weak because it really sounded like he’d missed a lot of important things. His fingers slowed but didn’t stop carding their way through Sherlock’s curls. His mouth opened and the words spilled out, “You love me.”

Sherlock’s shoulders shook one more time but he nodded, “Yes.” His long thin arms tightened around John’s waist, “I tried to find out how you felt. I thought I knew. This morning…I thought….was I wrong?”

There was such fear and despair in Sherlock’s voice and it hurt John worse than anything Mary had done to him because _he_ was the one making Sherlock feel this way and that had to stop, “You weren’t wrong. I love you Sherlock. I love you too.”

Sherlock pulled back and stared up at John, his eyes reddened but so serious. He examined John’s face minutely and John stood there and let him. They had so many misunderstandings between them, he couldn’t take another emotional hit, not one more. They’d finally spoken the words and now everything was out in the open. John had nothing left to lose and everything to gain and he wanted Sherlock to understand that.

He did.

John found that the detective had risen from his seat to embrace John fiercely, his arms tightening like steel bands around the soldier. Sherlock had his face pressed to the side of John’s face and he was muttering, “You can’t ever leave me John, you can’t ever take yourself away from me, not ever. You are my whole world John, my _entire_ world!”

A dam broke and suddenly John couldn’t stop himself from kissing Sherlock. Their mouths clashed together and it was hungry, desperate, filled with feelings too long suppressed, to long denied and once the flood was loosed there was no stopping it. Sherlock’s mouth was soft and a bit salty with tears but John had never had a finer kiss. John found Sherlock had pushed them both the sofa and gladly he fell back, taking the detective with him. “This is real right? This is happening?” was that his voice begging?

“It’s real John. It’s very real.” Sherlock’s mouth was back on his and it was incredible. John was very thoroughly kissed, and lingering doubts about Sherlock’s apparent virginity completely out the window. He definitely knew what he was doing, “Of course I do John. I am a scientist after all. Research.”

 _Research_ , John smiled to himself, “Your room.”

“ _Now_ ,” both men entirely in agreement with one another they rose off the couch slowly, their mouths still glued together before parting and without needing to discuss it John locked their front door before Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s wrist once again and this time dragged him right off to his bedroom where yet another door was locked to secure them from any outside interference, “Romance _later_ , orgasm _now_.” demanded Sherlock and John was once again fully in agreement. They needed to take the edge off before they could focus. Both of them needed to clear their heads of all the angst and agony.

They pulled each other’s clothes off, unbuckling and unbuttoning each other as fast as they could as they kissed feverishly. Sherlock tasted incredible, spicy and decadent. John wanted to taste every bit of Sherlock and it seemed that the detective wanted to do the same thing, “I need you John, I want to be in you, I….”

John groaned loudly and he couldn’t control how his hips bucked eagerly. Sherlock wanted to fuck him. Sherlock wanted to spread John wide and fill him, leave a bit of himself inside. He’d never been with a man but the mere thought of Sherlock having him the way no one else ever had was too much to resist, “Yes, god…yes…now….let’s do that now.”

Sherlock shuddered from head to toe, his head dropping with a thump to John’s shoulder as he struggled to control himself. They were sprawled over his duvet, both of them bare-naked and hard. “It might hurt, I’m…I’m not patient now.”

“I don’t care.” John didn’t. So what if it hurt? Despite his agreement though Sherlock fished out a relatively new bottle of lube and drizzled a large amount onto his fingers. Without waiting he reached down and slicked them over John’s opening, already pressing and swirling. Sherlock kissed him and John bore down, encouraging Sherlock to just insert a finger and begin working him open. They didn’t take nearly enough time and Sherlock probably could have worked his way to three fingers instead of two but soon enough John was gasping and clawing at Sherlock’s back as the detective relentlessly pushed inside.

Sherlock didn’t go fast but he didn’t stop until he was balls deep inside John, his whole body trembling with effort. John felt his body protest at the invasion, it felt uncomfortably strange. They were face to face and when John looked at Sherlock he saw how the man was struggling with all his might to retain even a fragment of control. The stinging discomfort and stretch took a lot of the passion away for John but that look, that brought all of it rushing right back, “Go.”

With an agonized groan Sherlock pulled back and thrust. John couldn’t help the pained cry that escaped him but at the same time he spread his legs wider, his knees pulled high so Sherlock could move. Sherlock braced himself on his hands, his own knees spread wide as his hips began to roll. He went relatively slow at first, carefully adjusting the depth and angle of his thrusts until a shock of something lovely made John moan softly. “That’s it John, I’ve got you.” Sherlock’s voice was filled with desire and tenderness combined, “Let me make you feel good John, I want you to feel so good. I love you.”

 _Oh he did he did he did he did_. John felt good, so very good, so blissfully, euphorically good. “I love you too.” He’d never known anything like this, had never understood how incredible it could feel to have someone physically inside him, never knew what it felt like to make love to someone you _actually_ loved and John loved Sherlock so much he couldn’t contain it.

“I love you more.” sighed Sherlock, his hips beginning to move faster, “I love you so much John.”

John reached up and threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls before letting his hands slide down to cup Sherlock’s jaw and neck. He looked up at the tall beautiful man riding him so deftly and the words simply came out, “Marry me.”

Sherlock’s body froze for an instant of stunned surprise but he nodded, and exhaling raggedly Sherlock managed to say “John” before he needed to brace himself again, his hips moving faster as he thrust deeper. It wasn’t going to take long. John reached down and began to stroke himself, the wet slick droplets of pre-come making him slick as his fist flew over the end of his cock.

When John felt Sherlock’s cock throb deep inside him he managed to look up to witness Sherlock’s face mid-orgasm. He was beautiful. His glorious eyes were almost slitted closed and his brows knitted together. Sherlock lovely mouth was open and his pleasured moan was deep and rumbling as his hips worked methodically to help him empty himself as deeply as he could. It was enough for John.

With one hand cupping his testicles and the other moving over his shaft and glans John came. Sherlock was still deep inside him and clenching around the solid mass lodged tight inside him somehow made John’s orgasm almost burn out of him, the normal heat of desire so extreme now that John’s entire being was nothing but an orgasmic blaze.

Sometime later when the fog in his head cleared John opened his eyes and found that Sherlock was lying beside him, his head propped up on one large hand and his eyes examining John speculatively, “Did you mean it?”

John rolled to his side so he was facing Sherlock. Both of them were still a bit sweaty and flushed, “Yes. Did you?”

Sherlock nodded again and John laughed softly. Sherlock smiled and said, “I do. I will. Gladly.”

John was grinning like a fool. Everything was so perfect. There was nothing but sunshine now and he could see that Sherlock felt the same way, “I don’t expect anything different from you though, we’ve pretty much been married this whole time.”

“Not married enough.” rumbled Sherlock leaning forward for a kiss, “No time to rest up. I plan on testing my fiancé’s endurance, for science.”

“For science.” said John with a small laugh as he allowed himself to be pushed onto his back once again. He was a little surprised when Sherlock slung his long leg over and sat on John’s thighs. “Already?”

“We have so much time to make up for,” said Sherlock with a gentle smile. He looked so relaxed and content, his eyes bright, his expression open and John just beamed. All his worries, all his anguish, all his fears, everything was just gone and he could not believe it, “Believe it John. This is how we are now, how we were always meant to be.” With another smile and a slightly devilish look Sherlock Holmes bent down and kissed John again, “Factor analysis can fail if one is not in possession of all the facts. It can provide misleading results until the determining factor is identified. This was mine. I won’t make that mistake again. This is forever John.” _Good_ thought John as Sherlock proceeded to take him to pieces a second time. Forever sounded like just the right amount of time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have created an email account so people can contact me easier. Feel free to send me a few words at distantstarlight@hotmail.com or on Tumblr at distantstarlight.tumblr.com or freakishly enough on Twitter @distantstarlite (see what I did there?)


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